


Here comes the sun

by Sattar



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Humor, overwhelming amounts of disgusting tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 20:55:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4034272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sattar/pseuds/Sattar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were kissing. It was a mess of entangled limbs, sharp elbows and knees, feverish stolen breathes, hands which were at the same time trying to caress and cling to the other one, the heat of skin against skin. The chair was so helplessly small for two of them that just not falling off was a test of dexterity, more suitable for someone not drunk and tired out of their minds. Fenris had to support himself with one outstretched leg, while the other one was falling asleep, because Hawke practically sat on it, and an annoying armrest was sticking into his ribs. But he wasn’t really bothered by any of that, it even felt strangely welcomed. Like potters of ancient Tevinter, who were leaving slight cracks in the otherwise flawless vases so the gods won’t destroy them in envy of their perfection, deep down he felt more comfortable in the presence of minor inconveniences. Fate was never kind to him, and he saw no reason why it might suddenly change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here comes the sun

**Author's Note:**

> So I got "hope+grinding" prompt and ran with it.
> 
> It now has also translation to Russian by Эlиs https://ficbook.net/readfic/3251778

They were kissing. It was a mess of entangled limbs, sharp elbows and knees, feverish stolen breathes, hands which were at the same time trying to caress and cling to the other one, the heat of skin against skin. The chair was so helplessly small for two of them that just not falling off was a test of dexterity, more suitable for someone not drunk and tired out of their minds. Fenris had to support himself with one outstretched leg, while the other one was falling asleep, because Hawke practically sat on it, and an annoying armrest was sticking into his ribs. But he wasn’t really bothered by any of that, it even felt strangely welcomed. Like potters of ancient Tevinter, who were leaving slight cracks in the otherwise flawless vases so the gods won’t destroy them in envy of their perfection, deep down he felt more comfortable in the presence of minor inconveniences. Fate was never kind to him, and he saw no reason why it might suddenly change.

But this evening was made of darkness and shimmering gold, black shadows of his eroded mansion entangling with Hawke’s still slightly wet hair, warm gleams from the fireplace flickering on her black curls, amber eyes glowing under thick wave of lashes. She curled in Fenris’ arms, wearing his leather tunic - she hated it, just like the rest of his outfit, but when they stayed in his place, she wore it as a house robes - and when he once asked her why, she shrugged and said “Well, you don’t have a crest”. Every time he saw her in this thing, the feeling of belonging that struck him was overwhelmingly sharp. All possible splits in his happiness were fading away dangerously fast, and he resorted to the old reliable trick.

“I still think it was a mistake to let that mage escape,” he said when they finally pulled away from each other and Hawke picked up the bottle of wine from the floor to take a long sip “His story about pretending to be a blood mage just to get women’s attention seems so…”

“Fishy?” she leered over the bottle’s neck with cheerfully sly grin.

“Ridiculous,” he finished calmly, taking bottle from her, and she laughed.

“Of course you won’t understand! Have you seen yourself? You’d still cause an epidemic of neck traumas to passers-by even with a bald patch like his. What would you know of his struggles?” she ran her fingers through his hair and he crooked an eyebrow, looking up at her from under disheveled bangs.

“And what would you know about it?”

“Have you met my brother? Carver was so desperate to get laid, he’d say he’s an Archdemon to make a girl notice him.”

“I wouldn’t think he even has an imagination for such an idea.”

“Well, yeah, the idea was mine, but I just tried to help him. Whaat? Why are you laughing? The idea was good! I could make it work! Wanna bet? Let’s go to the Hanged Man, and I’ll get a girl with that in five minutes!”

“This bet would hardly be fair since you could do it without any words at all,” he snapped and she chuckled, leaning against him to nuzzle into his neck, and he twisted his shoulder to let her lay on it.

“Still,” he said, stroking her back under his own tunic and enjoying the contrast between the familiar coarse leather and her soft skin, “even if he’s not a blood mage yet, allowing him to run amok was foolish. Someone like him - weak-willed and easily influenced - is a perfect prey for temptations. If I’d was a Desire Demon…”

Hawke straightened up abruptly with exaggeratedly disappointed scowl “You’d be a lot less handsome.”

He just rolled his eyes silently and took a sip of wine.

“Also, their outfits are even more ridiculous and make even less sense than your feathery spiky so-called “armor”, and this is saying a lot. Seriously, a chain between nipples? If I were you, - meaning close-combat fighter, not a sarcastic ruffle of brooding adorableness, - the first thing I’d do in the battle would be tugging that stupid chain.”

“Forgive me if I ignore your tactical advices.”

“Sure, you’re too prudish for that.”

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t even swear in a language somebody around can understand. Hell, you taunt enemies in a fight more politely than I converse at the noble parties! It also takes a special talent to unflappably lecture me about danger of temptations while simultaneously groping my ass and…”

He tickled her sides, turning her into writhing laughing mess, what efficiently reduced her ability to speak (and snark) to occasional “Stop, it’s not fair, stop!” When they finally settled down, she muttered “You cheating herring”, bit lightly at his jaw and with a breathless sigh leaned against his chest.

“Speaking seriously though, I think right now for any mage, even weak-willed, it’s safer to be maybe unsupervised, but not in Kirkwall,” he couldn’t see her eyes, but her voice was tired  “There are so many blood mages and abominations, that it seems like the city itself turns people into monsters. If it was up to me, I’d evacuated everyone and tried to cleanse and strengthen the Veil for at least the next decade. This place is wretched.”

Hawke swallowed and gave out a short, ragged sigh, and all he could do was tighten his arms around her and press his lips against her forehead, contemplating for the thousandth time that  he was unable to never let her go and, better yet, never let anything foul go anywhere near her. She rubbed her cheek against him.

“Back to Desire Demons, what’s up with the colour? I mean, they’re supposed to be the personification of attractiveness. Do things become more appealing if you make them purple?”

By the deliberate innocence in her voice Fenris could tell that the wave of provokingly absurd jokes was coming, so he took a long sip from the bottle in preparation.

“See, I’m willing to admit that maybe I’m unable to be the judge of it because of my life-long bias towards red. So I’m curious of your unprejudiced opinion, - hey, here’s your chance to be unprejudiced about something, isn’t that cool?”

“Absolutely thrilling. There’s nothing what I’d desired more on the evening like this.”

“Huh, wow,” she pulled back to glare at him with her narrowed eyes “So you can go on about how foolish and wrong I am, but it’s me who ruins the mood with a simple question about colours?”

She was unbearably beautiful, ruffled black curls, daring and brightly amber eyes, her cheeks flushed and lips slightly swollen from kisses, his tunic sliding down her shoulder, and he didn’t even try to fight an adoring grin. Instead, he kissed her throat, slowly and luxuriously, and though she managed to keep her voice leveled, short breath that she drew in gave her away.

“Maybe I should try being purple, hm? Purple would go nicely with my eyes. And if the next time Meredith and Orsino are having a public shouting contest, I walk in and I’m purple, they’d be too shocked to continue, right? Should work at least once. What do you think?”

He thought how it was admirable and heartbreakingly endearing that this by nature blustering and mischievous little wonder carried her responsibilities as the Champion, never abusing her power and never taking out her distress on anyone, and her only way of dealing with massive pressure was making jokes and playing harmless pranks. But he also knew how stubborn she was, and if in serious arguments this stubbornness could be tempered by reason, - not easy, but achievable task, - then in the matters of ridiculousness opposing her only kindled the fire. So he didn’t answer anything and just slowly moved his lips higher.

“How about violet?” her tone was still prickly arrogant, but she arched her throat and let out a little sigh when his tongue slid up her jawline “Or mauve, yeah, I think ma…”

He finally covered her mouth with his and she bit at his lower lip teasingly, but then returned a kiss, her hands moving up his chest to grip on his shoulders. The way she arched her back in his arms and how unsteadily her fingers dug into him made him groan.

“What, you don’t want mauve this badly?”

She openly laughed with playful smugness that he missed so much all this time they were apart. He missed her so badly he was grateful for any chance to see her, and involvement of Deep Roads, blood mages or any other kind of mortal danger seemed like a minor inconvenience. But even standing a step away, he still missed her. Not only her fingers in his hand or her lips on his skin, but her making faces at him, reckless pranks, lousy ponytail which was replaced by high hairdo with an elaborate pattern of braids - elegantly beautiful, but so unlike fiery brat she always was. He felt sorry and helpless about every tired wrinkle around her eyes, heavy sigh or slump of shoulders. He’d let her paint him mauve just to see her laugh with the same childish mirth. And now, when she was in his arms, mischievous and sprightly, he was torn between fear to even breath to not scare it away and feverish greed to have everything at once.

“Let me show you what I want this badly,” he whispered against her lips before claiming them, but when his hands slid down her back, she sighed and pulled away.

“No, not yet.”

He groaned with disappointment “It is absorbed already!”

“This ointment requires at least half an hour to fully soak in and start taking effect, without interruption of sweat or other… fluids. As a matter of fact, I must seat myself away to…”

“No, you must not,” he said firmly, frowning and catching her waist to keep her in place, so she sighed with resignation and covered his hands with her palms.

“Fine, but you should behave properly.”

“You could give me a break from this malodorous slime for a day at least,” he grunted, but relaxed his grip and threaded his fingers with hers.

“But it helps with the markings, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, but I had them for so long, I barely notice any… discomfort now. It doesn’t matter.”

“No, it does!”

“I function just as fine.”

She opened her mouth with indignation, then closed it and pinched the bridge of her nose, shaking her head.

“Okay, let’s have it this way,” she said after taking a deep breath “You don’t know how long this “just fine” will last. There’s a fatal risk of lyrium poisoning, and hell yeah we’re using anything to prevent it or at least minimize the damage, even if it stinks!”

“What if it’ll lessen the efficiency of markings?”

“Then screw them! Who cares? I’d get rid of that unpredictably-timed supernatural venom under your skin in a heartbeat if there was an option.”

His whole life this question had a very clear answer - nobody cares about him, only his markings have value. He found out that in order to survive he shouldn’t be hurt by anything, and if he couldn’t help it - then at least never show it. But Hawke knew him better than anyone, saw him scared, weak, ashamed and helplessly angry, and still always was there for him.

“I’m not made of glass.”

“You’re not made of glass, you’re made of flesh and blood, you idiot! Feeling pain doesn’t make you weak, it makes you alive, and ignoring it just fucks you up!”

Everyone else was kept away by spikes on his armor, but Hawke was not just allowed past them - her every touch and word went under his skin. He let himself be vulnerable with her, and even if anyone else’s attacks, distasteful crude jokes, open insults and disdain meant nothing to him, he knew that from her even indifference would be devastating. But in return, every little sign of her affection - smile, caress, even worried gaze, spread like a sunshine under his skin.

“You’re the sun of my despair,” he told her softly and she looked at him incredulously.

“Darling, I understand that you need to decant your poetic bitterness once in awhile, with stuff like ”plague burned into a soul” and whatnot, but really? Incompetent guy who’s more likely to burn his own nose off before he’ll manage a proper fireball and a half an hour of waiting do not hold up for “the sun of despair.”

“I’m not bitter.”

Hawke just raised an eyebrow and he let a drunk, fascinated grin crook up the corner of his mouth.

“It’s just that I missed you for so long, it became almost a part of me. It took roots in scars that my past had cost me and grew so deep that even now, with you in my arms, branches of this longing are still restlessly reaching for you,” he slowly caressed her cheek, just barely touching it with his fingertips, as softly as he could, “as if your light only feeds it like sun feeds the tree.”

She blushed brilliantly, leaning into his hand, and he could feel the heat pulsing under her skin.

“But it grows flowers” she kissed his palm gingerly and whispered almost shyly, “of tenderness I couldn’t imagine.”

He drew her abruptly to him, without even realizing his own movement at first. It felt more like a string that went through both of them suddenly became white-hot and the only possible thing to do was to get entangled into a knot of a kiss.

“Um, no, wait, it’s not the time yet…” Hawke muttered, breaking the kiss, but she didn’t move away and her fingers strayed in his hair. He smiled.

“There are things that you shouldn’t say if you want me to “behave properly.”

She lifted her gaze from his lips and met his eyes, and though she grinned tauntingly, Fenris knew she already gave in. “Like what, “Beware, this mage can shapeshift into a giant stinky fish”?”

He kissed her neck instead of answering, she arched her throat and slid her fingers down his chest, sending shivers under his skin. Patterns of her caress never followed lyrium brands, and markings that seemed to define his fate turned into a part of landscape, over which new paths could be laid.  

“It’s your bad influence, by the way,” she said, trying to fake annoyance, but her voice lowered to almost a purr. “My whole life I couldn’t phrase anything metaphorical unless it was an innuendo.”

“I’m sorry,” he said softly into her ear, tugging tunic down from her shoulders. “If it’ll console you, your influence on me was much bigger.”

“Yeah, I can see it growing right now.” She pulled back, shaking off the tunic, and pressed finger against his lips. “And don’t you dare to say more romantic stuff, already I’ll have to talk only with stupid dirty puns till the week’s end to outbalance it. ”

He couldn’t help, but feel a grin fighting it’s way onto his face.

“Because of you I’m starting getting used to smiling,” he told her with quiet honesty, holding her gaze.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Fenris. You’re more unfair than your face, and it shouldn’t even be possible. Let’s get in the bed, there’s no way we’re dealing with this quickly.”

“I expected nothing less.”

“Will you shut up alre…Mhhmmm!”


End file.
